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Summary
“Orym…?” he starts, but his own voice sounds groggy. His tongue is numb, like he’d been asleep for days. He wants to apologize for the mess. “Wh’ happened…?”
He’s shushed gently. The bed dips. Cold fingers brush his hair back from his face.
Is he dreaming? Everything is swirling in his head, and he can’t make sense of it. He briefly opens his eyes, and it’s too dark to see anything at all by the dim candlelight.
“Sleep, Brontë,” says the someone.
Dorian Storm still has one secret left to keep. But the past isn't dead, and refuses to be unacknowledged any longer.
